


Stars and foil flowers

by Vio_lence



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Creepy Asriel, Drama, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Frisk ALMOST yandere, Ghosts, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, OOC, Romance, Yandere Frisk (Undertale), popdance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vio_lence/pseuds/Vio_lence
Summary: The soul is the culmination of your existence. A small quintessence that can fade with careless use. You are not a shell that contains a soul; you are the soul itself, held in a cage of magic and flesh.Well, and Flowey... A little more difficult, considering that in the original it had no soul at all.//////a person from the real world!Flowey
Relationships: Alphys/Undyne (Undertale), Chara/Papyrus (Undertale), Flowey/Frisk (Undertale), Sans/Toriel (Undertale)
Kudos: 3





	Stars and foil flowers

Imagine a situation.

Night, street, lantern, phar-

Bought it? Okay, okay, the joke didn't work. But I don't understand, what are you doing here if you don't understand jokes?

Yes, Yes, I'm silent… More precisely, I say. Telling you? Um, I guess?.. Hey, be patient!

You are a child. The whole world is a game to you. You live like a small motor running: from childhood you take acceleration to lose charge as you get older day by day. You do not think about what will happen tomorrow, you do not know what death is — it passed by, touched your loved ones, but you still did n o t understand.

Why should I be afraid of it?

You are a child. You see the world differently than adults, easier than adults. Your mother puts her hands on your shoulders to comfort you, because you are sobbing because of her own tears, but she buries her face in your shoulder, and now you are stroking her hunched, tired back.

Then, it seems, your uncle died-quite young, some 50 old, which for you was an eternity. You cried as loud as you could, drowning out other people's grief with your roar, crying out other people's tears. But you didn't understand anyway. Your uncle died.

_**So what?** _

You are a child. You love sweets, long conversations, and people. But people don't seem to like you: running boards, venomous words, bruises, and your backpack turns into a soccer ball if left unattended. You put your keys and money in your shorts ' pockets, afraid that one day they'll decide to look inside and leave you empty-handed.

You don't understand. What's fun about it?

But you're angry.

…Perhaps?

You're a child, but you grow up much faster. You are quiet, calm, and when a new team appears, you get a new nickname, not as offensive as before, it even amuses you. «Isolde». Made-of-ice.

N **ice.**

You think it's all trauma, you're alive, you feel, just you… Tired. You're tired of smiling, being angry, crying, shouting, and being afraid. You feel it, but your neighbor still screams in fright when you, almost a year later, sharply laughed at the teacher's joke.

...You're only sixteen and you're tired.

You understand. But it becomes somehow all the same. Don't want. No smiling, no crying, no making friends.

Your father says that you are on your way, and you give him a smile in return. There may be a small chance, one thousandth of a percent, that it is.

You're 20 old. 21-2-3-5 old.

College and University were left behind.

You're not a child anymore. And you understand.

…Perhaps.

You are a man of the crowd. You're not against it or for it. You flow and merge with the crowd, get lost in it, and it's still not over. Should have been. You are a man of the crowd, so you follow it when your friends pull you to the square...

Where the bomb was placed.

Game over.

No resets or saves.

... Now imagine that you are me and my name is Anita. Or called Anita. When your (no, no, in the sense of «my») botany's parents are a real grief in the family. Or children. That's how you could call your daughter a flower? You don't know? I don't know, either.

Now that name sounds blurry to me, like it's not my name at all. You know, it doesn't even hurt at all, or rather it doesn't hurt at all. Seriously. My memory is too blurry, not complete, like an obliquely assembled mosaic. I can't cling to that name with all my being, rejecting everything else.

I like the name the little skeleton gave me. He comes to me every day, despite his brother's prohibitions, and reads his books, children's, fairy-tale, but I don't complain, really. His presence dispels my boredom. He's not the only one, there's mom, Doc, his little assistant… A Princess of Monsters from the human race and a creepy Prince that the Princess is afraid of.

Possible.

I'm still not very good at it.

...What's my name?

And guess what the name of a monster — or not a monster at all — like me might be?

_— Howdy! My name is Flowey! Flowey flower!_


End file.
